Jessi's Wish

by Ann M. Martin

  I didn’t dare look up. But after a few moments of silence, Mal poked me in the ribs. “What?” I asked her. And then I looked up.

  Everyone was grinning.

  “That,” said Stacey, “is a terrific idea. You know what my mom was telling me the other day? She said that a diabetes clinic is going to open soon in Stoneybrook. And they’re looking for kids or teenagers with diabetes who will meet kids who’ve just been diagnosed, and talk to them and give them advice and stuff. I’d like to do that. I wish someone had talked to me when I first got sick.”

  “I bet we could all find something to do,” said Kristy.

  “Maybe I could teach art!” exclaimed Claud.

  “What about the club, though?” asked Dawn, frowning. “We can’t run the BSC and volunteer, can we? I mean, I want to help out, but …”

  “We’ll think of something,” said Kristy, who was obviously too excited to think straight about anything. Her mind was running in a zillion directions. “I wonder if I could help out in the class for special kids at school. Or, remember when we baby-sat for Susan?” (Susan’s family lives not far from Claud. Susan has a disorder called autism.) “Maybe I could work with autistic kids somehow. Or, wait! I could tutor! Let’s see. What subject am I really good in? Okay, you guys. We have a mission. I call an emergency club meeting for Saturday afternoon. By then, we all should have looked into places that need volunteers.”

  Wow! I had sent us on a mission!

  “Thank you for saving my life,” said Becca dramatically.

  I smiled. “Any time.”

  “You know what this means?” asked my sister. “It means that now we won’t be even until I’ve saved your life.”

  “With any luck, it won’t need to be saved,” I replied.

  Goodness. You’d think I’d pulled Becca from a burning building or an overturned car. But this was all I’d done: I’d met Becca at her school after the next meeting of the Kids Club, and I’d talked with Mr. Katz.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Becca, when she saw me. She wasn’t expecting me, and she usually walks home by herself or with Charlotte after a meeting.

  “That’s a nice greeting,” I answered, but I wasn’t really annoyed. “I just want to see Mr. Katz for a few minutes. If you and Char wait outside, I’ll walk home with you.”

  “Okay,” replied Becca, looking puzzled.

  I stepped inside the large room where the Kids Club meets. Mr. Katz was busy putting art materials in a cabinet.

  “Excuse me?” I said, feeling timid. “Mr. Katz?”

  He turned around. “Yes?”

  “Um, I’m Jessi Ramsey … Becca Ramsey’s sister?”

  Mr. Katz smiled. “Jessi,” he said warmly. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Becca and Charlotte. And several other students here. You’re a baby-sitter?”

  “Yes.” I explained about the BSC. Then I said, “Becca told me about Ms. Simon. I’m really sorry. I’m sorry about the club, too. Disbanding it would be awful. The kids would be pretty upset.”

  “Well —”

  “So I was wondering,” I rushed on. “Could I help out? I know I’m only eleven, and I know I can’t take Ms. Simon’s place, but I’d like —”

  “It’s volunteer work, Jessi,” Mr. Katz interrupted me. “We don’t get paid.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I mean, I’m used to getting paid when I baby-sit, but this is important to me. And I understand that when Ms. Simon comes home, she’ll probably want her job back. That’s okay, too. I don’t want to leave the Baby-sitters Club permanently.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” exclaimed Mr. Katz. He paused. “How about a trial period to see how this works out? It has to be right for you, too.”

  “That sounds great.”

  Mr. Katz and I agreed that I would give him a hand at the next four meetings of the Kids Club. If we were happy — and if the kids were happy — then I would stay on until Ms. Simon returned, which might be as soon as a month.

  And this was what prompted Becca to say I’d saved her life. She could barely believe that the Kids Club might survive after all.

  “It’s no guarantee,” I warned her.

  “I know. But it’s two more weeks. Besides, you’ll be great, Jessi!”

  “It’ll definitely be fun,” I agreed.

  I was prepared for the Saturday emergency meeting of the BSC.

  * * *

  Kristy had called the special meeting for two o’clock in the afternoon. I guess everyone was as excited as I was about what we were going to be doing, because by one-thirty, the entire BSC had gathered in Claud’s room and Kristy had called the meeting to order.

  I looked around at the faces of my friends. Everyone was beaming — Kristy, poised in the director’s chair; Dawn, sitting backward in Claud’s wooden desk chair, her chin resting on the top rung of the back; Mary Anne, Claud, and Stacey, in a row on Claud’s bed; and Mal and I, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I waited expectantly for Kristy to speak.

  “Okay,” she said, grinning. “I have a feeling I don’t really need to ask this question, but did everyone here look into volunteering?”

  “Yes!” we replied. (We wouldn’t have shown up so early otherwise.)

  “Great. Well, let’s just take turns talking about what we found out…. I’ll start. I mean, I am the president.” (As if we could forget.) “Okay. There were so many things I could have done. Tutoring, teaching, I asked about the Big Sister organization. But then I remembered the day-care center in town. David Michael used to go there. Before he started school. It’s a pretty nice place. It’s for kids whose parents work. There’s a program for babies, one for toddlers, one for preschoolers, and there’s even an after-school program for kids up to ten. I remembered that they need volunteer helpers. So I signed up. I start next week.”

  “Cool,” said Stacey. “What will you be doing?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. I think I just observe at first. Or maybe I help out wherever I’m needed. I’ll know more on Wednesday.” Kristy turned to Dawn. “Your turn,” she said.

  Dawn straightened up. “I’m going to spend three afternoons each week at the Baker Institute. It’s in Stamford, but that’s okay. They provide transportation for the kids from Stoneybrook who use the institute, so I’ll just ride with them after school and come back with them at dinnertime. I can help out on the bus while I’m on it.”

  “What’s the Baker Institute?” I asked.

  “It’s a program for kids who are physically disabled. Most of them are in wheelchairs. They have cerebral palsy and muscular dystrophy and stuff. When they’re at Baker they get physical therapy and they can take part in lots of activities — art, creative writing, music, all kinds of things.”

  I had about a million questions (such as, “What’s muscular dystrophy?”), but Kristy had already gone on to Stacey.

  “Did you find out about the diabetes clinic?” she asked.

  “Yup,” said Stace. “I talked to my mom right away. She was really pleased that I want to volunteer. She gave me the name of the director, and I had a meeting with her the next afternoon. The clinic hasn’t even opened yet, but already there’s a long list of people who have signed up for various programs. One of the programs is the one I told you about. Kids like me will talk with other kids who’ve recently found out they’re diabetic. The director — her name is Miss Arnell — told me about two kids, an eight-year-old boy and a ten-year-old girl, who just got diagnosed. I’m supposed to phone them and talk to them and then spend some time with them. I think it’ll be interesting but maybe hard. I remember how scared I was when the doctor first told me I had diabetes.”

  It came as no surprise to any of us that Claud was going to help teach an art class, as she’d hoped she might.

  “It’s at the community center,” Claud explained. “They offer a lot of art classes. This is an after-school one for seven-year-olds —”

  “Wait a sec,” interrupted Mallory. “When does it meet?�
�

  “Tuesday and Friday afternoons.”

  Mallory began to laugh. “I think Margo’s taking that class.”

  “Great!” exclaimed Claud.

  “Here’s more good news,” said Kristy. “I think Karen’s signed up, too!”

  “I’ll be prepared,” said Claud.

  Mary Anne was going to be doing something different from the rest of us. “I won’t be working at an organization or a community center,” she began. “See, my dad and Dawn’s mom are friends with this couple who have a little boy who’s brain damaged. They need people to come over to their house and work with their son, plus help out with their two other kids. I guess Frankie — that’s the boy — is almost a full-time job.”

  Mal was next. “There’s a recreation program at the park,” she said. “It’s free. Kids can be part of it whenever they want to — after school, on weekends. All they have to do is show up. The counselors offer sports, and arts and crafts. Sometimes the triplets go. It’s really nice for kids to have something to do. But the counselors need help.”

  I only spoke briefly. Everyone knew what I was going to say. After all, the Kids Club was what had started our “mission.”

  “This is really great,” said Kristy, after I’d talked about meeting Mr. Katz. “There’s just one thing.”

  “Uh-oh. What?” said Stacey.

  “What Dawn said before. Our regular clients. Club meetings. We still have to decide what we’re going to do for the next month or so. I don’t want to sound … you know. But we worked so hard to make our club successful. What if we put ourselves out of business?”

  I almost told Kristy she was overreacting, until I thought about the problem. We had worked hard to be successful. People counted on us. They expected to be able to reach us during meetings.

  “Wait a sec,” spoke up Claud. “I know we’re going to be busy, but the club doesn’t have to stop. We have associate members, you know. Plus, we won’t all be working seven days a week. My art class is on Tuesdays and Fridays. I can answer the phone on Mondays and Wednesdays.”

  “I could answer it on Fridays,” I said.

  We agreed to continue our meetings. Whoever could show up, would show up. We’d just have to be extra careful about scheduling jobs. And we’d have to rely on Logan and Shannon more than usual. (Kristy called them to make sure they didn’t mind. And they didn’t.)

  “Well,” said Kristy, getting to her feet, “next week should be interesting. I think this change will be good for us.”

  “And for a lot of other people,” I added.

  The room was crowded. And noisy. Sixteen kids can be awfully loud. Especially when school has just let out, and they’re hungry and excited and I don’t know what else. I tried to remember how it felt to be eight years old and at the end of a school day.

  Was I supposed to be doing anything? I looked around the room.

  Nicky Pike was standing on a chair, yelling to another boy to toss him this sneaker they were playing with. (I don’t know who the sneaker belonged to. All the kids were wearing their shoes.)

  In the back of the room, Vanessa Pike and two girls were practicing cheers they’d seen the high school cheerleaders perform.

  Two other girls were chasing a boy around the room. The boy tripped over a chair and fell — and the girls tackled him. “Cowabunga!” they yelled.

  In the midst of all this, my sister was seated at a desk. Charlotte Johanssen was seated next to her. The two of them were poring over something in one of their schoolbooks. They weren’t even aware of the pandemonium that surrounded them. They must have great powers of concentration.

  So must Mr. Katz. He was leaning against the teacher’s desk, flipping through some sheets of paper. He didn’t even notice when the sneaker sailed across the room and smacked into the blackboard behind him. Were the kids in the Kids Club always this wild? Becca had never said anything about that. On the other hand, maybe she’d never noticed.

  I approached Mr. Katz. “Hi,” I said.

  He looked up quickly. “Jessi. Hi. I’m glad you’re here. Welcome to …” (he glanced around the wild room) “… the Kids Club. Don’t worry. They won’t be this zooey all afternoon. They just need to let off some steam before we start. It’s been a long day.”

  I nodded. (I understood why Becca liked Mr. Katz so much.)

  Mr. Katz let the kids run around for about five more minutes. Then he clapped his hands and called, “Okay!”

  That was all it took.

  Every single kid in the room stopped whatever he or she was doing and scrambled for a spot on the floor. (The desks had been pushed against the wall in one corner of the room, and the kids crowded into this space.)

  What was I supposed to do? Sit with the children? Stand with Mr. Katz?

  Mr. Katz answered the questions for me. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Okay, everybody. Settle down. I’m glad you came this afternoon. As you know, Ms. Simon is out of town for awhile. She hopes to be back in a month or so. Meanwhile, something fortunate has happened. I want you to meet Jessi Ramsey. This is Becca’s sister. She’s offered to give us a hand until Ms. Simon returns. Jessi will be here to answer questions and to do anything Ms. Simon would have done — except drive our van.” (The kids giggled.)

  Mr. Katz turned to me. “Jessi, I expect you know a lot of the kids here. In case you see some unfamiliar faces, though, I’m going to ask everyone to introduce himself or herself to you.”

  The children took turns saying their names aloud. (When it was Becca’s turn, she giggled and said, “I’m your sister. I think you know me.”)

  Then Mr. Katz got down to business. He picked up the papers he’d been looking through a few moments before. “Guess what,” he said. “You guys got some mail.”

  The kids, who were already paying attention, seemed to perk up even more.

  “Who’d we get mail from?” asked Nicky Pike.

  “I’ll read one of the letters to you. You can see for yourselves,” replied Mr. Katz. He sorted through the papers, chose one, and read, “ ‘Dear Kids Club, Thank you for the great toys. They are great. We are having a great time with them. Sometimes the nurses let us choose a toy from the playroom and bring it to our room for the night. That is great! I always choose the panda bear. Thank you. Sincerely, John.’”

  “The kids at the hospital!” exclaimed Charlotte Johanssen. She had raised her hand (and she left it raised while she spoke), but she hadn’t waited to be called on. Mr. Katz didn’t seem to care. “The kids got the toys. I guess they like them,” continued Charlotte.

  “Read some more letters!” called out a boy whose name (I thought) was Bruce.

  “Okay.” Mr. Katz shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Let’s see. Here we go. ‘Dear Kids Club, Hi! I broke my arm. I broke it playing football with my brothers. It wasn’t their fault, though. Thank you very much for sending the toys. I only have to stay in the hospital for a few days. But I really appreciate the toys. They help pass the time. Love, Abbie.’”

  “Abbie!” cried Nicky. “You mean a girl was playing football?”

  “Girls can play football, too,” said Vanessa.

  Mr. Katz ignored this. “Here’s an interesting letter,” he said. “‘Dear Kids Club, Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the wonderful toys. We really needed them. I feel like I have been in this hospital all my life! But guess what. The chemo is working. I can come home soon. I look funny, but I don’t care. I can’t wait to go back to school. Honest! I used to love being absent from school. Now I hope I never have to miss another day. We have Nintendo at the hospital. And a VCR. The video lady brings good movies. Oh! I should tell you what my favorite new toy is. Well, it’s not really a toy. It’s the art supplies that Witherspoon’s donated. I have been making jewelry. I wasn’t going to mention this, but I decided maybe I should warn you. The chemo made most of my hair fall out. Don’t worry. I won’t make you look at a bald head. I’ll get a scarf or a wig. I can’t wait to
see you. Thanks again! Love …’ ” Mr. Katz paused.

  The room was silent.

  Finally someone whispered, “Danielle?”

  Mr. Katz nodded.

  Becca’s eyes met mine. I thought she might cry. Instead she said slowly, “Those kids sound like they need pen pals. We better read the rest of the letters.”

  Mr. Katz smiled at her. “Is that going to be your next project?”

  The kids still looked a little stunned. After a few moments, Vanessa raised her hand.

  “Yes?” said Mr. Katz.

  “I thought we were going to pick up litter.”

  “Gross,” said Bruce. “We just cleaned up that place for the park. I’m tired of trash.”

  A few kids laughed. The tension eased. Mr. Katz perched himself on the edge of the teacher’s desk, so I did the same thing.

  Wendy Jervis raised her hand. “Arts and crafts —” she began.

  “Wendy!” exclaimed Peter Tiegreen. “Can’t you think about something besides art?”

  “But we were going to make presents, and the people who deliver Meals on Wheels were going to give them to all the people who can’t leave their homes.”

  The kids turned to Mr. Katz and me. They seemed to be saying, “Help us make up our minds!”

  “You do need to decide on a new project,” said Mr. Katz.

  The children listened to him seriously. I was impressed by how quickly they’d calmed down and by how attentive they were. But then, that made sense. They weren’t at the club meeting because they had to be. They were there because they wanted to be. They liked thinking up new projects, other ways to help people.

  “You did a terrific job with the toy drive,” Mr. Katz went on. “But it’s over now. Well, except for these letters.”

  Mr. Katz was interrupted by my sister. “Who here has ever been in the hospital?” she asked. (About half the kids raised their hands.) “Wouldn’t you have liked to have a pen pal then? Especially if you had to stay in the hospital a really long time … like Danielle?”